Seventy-Five
Mickey stepped into the bar, shaking off the damp San Francisco night. The neon glow outside had promised warmth, but the real heat lived inside, humming beneath the surface of laughter, clinking glasses, and conversations that blurred into one another. He took a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to drop. It had been a long day — the kind of day that makes a man forget why he’s trying so damn hard in the first place.
Benny spotted him before he even sat down.
“Well, well,” Benny said, rubbing the inside of a glass with a rag. “If it ain’t my favorite ghost.”
Mickey huffed a laugh, settling onto the stool. “A ghost that still tips.”
“Last time you were in here, you were nursing a cider. What’s it gonna be tonight?” Benny asked, tossing the rag over his shoulder. His voice was easy, but there was weight behind the words. The kind of weight that came with knowing a man’s battle before he even spoke it aloud.
Mickey let his eyes drift to the shelves of bottles behind Benny. The deep amber of bourbon, the clear bite of gin, the smooth caramel of rum. Each one a key to a different kind of relief. He didn’t say anything, just tapped his fingers against the counter.
“How long’s it been?” Benny asked, like he already knew the answer.
Mickey sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Seventy-five days.”
“Damn,” Benny whistled. “That’s real. You looking to reset that clock?”
Mickey forced a chuckle, but it felt hollow. “I don’t know. Maybe. What’s one drink?”
Benny leaned on the counter, giving him a look. “One drink is one drink. Until it’s not.”
Mickey exhaled sharply. He thought about his boss, Mr. Daniels, who had spent the better part of the day making Mickey feel like an idiot in front of the entire team. Thought about the way the man had cut him off mid-sentence, the way he had smirked when Mickey’s proposal got brushed aside for something “more realistic.” It was the kind of humiliation that left a sour taste, the kind you couldn’t wash out of your mouth with water. But maybe with whiskey.
And then there was Ginny.
The text had come in at 3:17 PM, just as he was trying to salvage what was left of his self-respect at work.
I saw something today that reminded me of you.
That was it. No explanation. Just that. They hadn’t spoken in months. “I mean sure, things ended because I set the ball rolling but nothing this whole while and now this text?” He thought to himself. Like he hadn’t spent the last seventy-five days proving to himself that he was stronger than the ghosts that haunted him.
Mickey swallowed hard and reached for the glass Benny had placed in front of him. But it wasn’t whiskey. It was clear, over ice, with a lime wedge floating on top.
“What the hell is this?” Mickey frowned.
“A drink,” Benny said simply. “A drink for a man who doesn’t really want to start over…just wants to feel different.”
Mickey scoffed but lifted the glass anyway, taking a sip. It was cold, crisp. No burn. No regret.
Before he could say anything, a man slid onto the stool beside him, slapping a twenty on the counter. “Benny, hit me with something strong. It’s been a week.”
Mickey turned slightly, eyeing the man. He was in his late forties, his shirt rumpled, tie loosened like he’d just staggered out of a finance job he hated. Benny nodded and poured him a bourbon, neat.
“Bad day?” Mickey asked before he could stop himself.
The man snorted. “Try bad year. Divorce is a hell of a thing, man.”
Mickey stiffened. “Yeah. I bet.”
The man took a deep sip and sighed. “She took the house. The dog. Even my goddamn peloton. I mean–”
Benny raised an eyebrow. “That’s rough, man.”
“She doesn’t even ride it!” The guy threw his hands up. “She just wanted me to suffer.”
Mickey smirked despite himself. “Maybe she was just trying to give you a reason to start running.”
The man paused, then let out a deep laugh. “Shit, maybe.” He lifted his glass to Mickey. “Here’s to running away.”
Mickey didn’t lift his glass. He just nodded, taking another sip of his soda.
The door opened, and a group of three spilled in, loud and full of energy. One of them — a woman in a yellow dress, her curls bouncing as she laughed — glanced around the bar before locking eyes with Mickey. She gave a small, polite smile before heading toward a booth with her friends.
Mickey looked down at his hands, flexing them. There was a time when he would have walked over, used his best charm, made the night interesting. But tonight, he wasn’t that man. Tonight, he was just trying to make it through.
“You ever wonder why people come to bars?” Benny asked suddenly.
Mickey tilted his head. “For a drink?”
“Nah,” Benny shook his head. “For a reason to drink. There’s always a reason. Breakups. Bad days. Loneliness. Wins, too, sometimes, but mostly? It’s the bruises people are trying to cover up.”
Mickey leaned back, considering that. He thought about his own bruises. Some still fresh, others faded but never gone.
A man across the bar slammed his fist down. “Benny, another round!” he called, his words slurring slightly.
Benny glanced at him, then at Mickey. “You ever seen a man at the bottom of a bottle?”
Mickey nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“Ever been him?”
Mickey didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Benny wiped down the counter. “Seventy-five, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you start?”
Mickey exhaled. “Because I got tired of feeling like I needed it. Like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.”
Benny nodded, then gestured toward Mickey’s glass. “And how’s that working out for you?”
Mickey stared down at the condensation on the glass, at the lime wedge floating idly on top. He ran his index finger around the rim of the glass.“Some days are easier than others.”
Benny grinned. “And today?”
Mickey looked up, met Benny’s knowing eyes. He thought about Mr. Daniels, about Ginny, about the man beside him drowning his sorrows in bourbon, about the woman in the yellow dress who had smiled at him without knowing his story.
And then he lifted his glass of soda, clinking it against the counter softly. “Today’s alright.”
Benny nodded. “Seventy-six, then.”
Mickey took another sip. The ice shifted in the glass, the lime settling into place. He let the cold spread through him, steady and sure.
He grabbed his phone, opened the Days app and just like that, seventy-five became seventy-six.
